Linbyr cleared his throat. “What I mean, my lord”- he sneered disdainfully-“is that the armies of the Dark Queen have sacked Archester.”
Derek scowled. “Impossible. Such a thing would never happen with Castle Archuran protecting-”
“Castle Archuran has fallen as well.”
Derek was so shocked, he let the interruption pass. He caught his breath. “Lord Aurik?” he asked.
“Slain, my lord, along with his men.”
Derek sat back in his seat. Lord Aurik had long been one of Derek’s greatest political supporters. He had also been a friend, a formidable warrior, and an eminently honorable man. That he and Castle Archuran could have fallen was unthinkable. Derek had never heard of a siege so short. “What treachery wrought this?”
“No treachery, my lord,” said Linbyr. His voice had at least softened with compassion for the fallen knights, but this pity only further inflamed Derek’s temper. “The armies overran the castle.”
Derek snorted. “In a thousand years, Castle Archuran’s walls have never been breached, by siege or sorcery.”
“That’s as may be,” Linbyr said, “but they crumbled like clay before the dragons.”
Derek looked away, clenching his fist. So it had come true. Edwin’s song had come true. He knew it was irrational, but he felt like laying the blame for the dragons on his brother.
“Yes, my lord. Dragons,” repeated Linbyr. “Out of the songs of old. The knights were too busy dying to defend our poor village.” He shook his head. “And to think we believed they could keep us safe from harm.”
With that, and without asking leave, Linbyr turned and left the hall. Derek made no move to stop him.
One word kept echoing in Derek’s head. Dragons. Dragons had thrown down the walls of Castle Archuran, had slaughtered Aurik and his men, had dealt yet another blow to Derek’s aspirations.
Carefully, he reached out and plucked the marker representing Castle Archuran from the map.
“My lord?”
Derek looked up from the table and saw Sir Winfrid in the doorway. The old seneschal’s face was drawn with worry.
“Well? What is it?” Derek snapped, rather more harshly than he’d meant to.
Winfrid was well used to his lord’s temper, and if he was stung at all by Derek’s curtness, he gave no indication. “A rider approaches from the northwest, my lord,” he said. “His shield bears the Knight’s Crest.”
Oddly, the first thought that occurred to Derek was that the joking squire had been wrong: the sentries were looking to the northwest, after all.
“A messenger from Lord Gunthar, do you think?” he asked.
Winfrid shrugged. “He nears the gates. The archers are standing at ready, my lord, lest it be a trick.”
“Good,” Derek said. “Let’s see what this is about.”
He followed Winfrid out of the hall and across the inner ward. Edwin was there, fussing over one of the villagers, a young woman with a bloodied leg.
Derek didn’t spare him a second glance. Edwin had a knack for healing the sick and injured. He knew herb lore and how to set broken bones. People said his presence alone made them feel better. Derek thought it all nonsense. Neither his brother nor the frightened, exhausted villagers were foremost on his mind.
He and Winfrid went into the gatehouse, then climbed up the watchtower stairs. At the top, bowmen crouched between the merlons, arrows nocked. Derek peered past them, down the road that led to the castle’s stout gates. A rider was approaching at a gallop, and his gleaming shield bore the kingfisher, rose, sword and crown of the Solamnic Knights. His armor was swathed in hunting greens, hiding his identity. The rider, nearing the gates, reined in his frothing chestnut horse. He glanced behind him furtively, as if expecting pursuit, then tried to climb out of his saddle. His legs gave out, and he fell to the ground with a crash and a muffled curse.
Derek watched the knight thrash on the ground. From the looks of him, the knight had seen hard fighting of late. That wasn’t a surprise: the hills were rife with enemy outriders, and the roads were dangerous for a lone horseman to travel. The knight pushed himself to his knees, then yanked off his visored helm. A shock of red hair spilled onto his shoulders. The man’s face was pale, and a thin trickle of dried blood had crusted on his chin, but there was a glint of laughter in his eyes as he gazed up at the watchtower.